Menace on the Mountain

By Gary Montgomery

When the Reverend Frederick Alton Stroh directs his small band of militant religious zealots to hijack a helicopter and use it to steal a sea container full of automatic rifles from a freight train, all hell breaks loose in the small town of Syracuse, Montana. Agents from the FBI, ATF, and even CID are sent to investigate. But they aren't the only ones trying to crack the case. Burlington Northern Railroad has its own police force, and they send Special Agent R. T. Spencer in undercover to look after their interests. Spencer once lived in Syracuse and served in Vietnam alongside John David Jackson, now the county sheriff. Never mind the irreverent detective happens to be confined to a wheelchair. That does not alter the fact that he is a capable investigator and a formidable opponent. An all-out downhill wheelchair race proves that.
Supplementing Stroh's band of misfits are two soldiers of fortune who seek not salvation, but monetary gain alone. The double murder of a local couple results in their two daughters returning home to bury their parents. One of the daughters, an oversize stripper from Denver, allies herself with R. T. Spencer while he endeavors to infiltrate the tightly knit group of militants. As sparks fly between R. T. and Belinda, a major forest fire ignites in the mountains surrounding Syracuse, complicating the effort to bring justice to the small band of fanatics.
A gutsy helicopter logger pilot, a frustrated FBI agent, a voluptuous sheriff's deputy, and the wife of a zealot who grows doubtful of Reverend Stroh and his phony church, all play key roles in keeping the pages turning in this fast-paced novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098371616

Book preview

Epilogue

Prologue

It was a mean night to be out and about, but there are always rats scurrying in and out of the shadows of the Stacey Yard railroad district in South Seattle. Two of them emerged from the Rosebud Bar on Colorado Avenue and headed for a nearby highway overpass, their faces bent to the driving rain. One of them was a small, wiry guy, and the other one was in a wheelchair.

Neither one spoke until they reached the relative cover of the overpass. The small, wiry guy glanced around furtively. Satisfied they were alone, he set about opening his backpack. It’s good shit! he exclaimed, his voice coarse and his hands unsteady. His fingers fumbled with the zipper.

He spread the pack open and pressed the switch on a small LED light that was attached to the pack’s zipper tab. The two of them peered into the pack. Inside lay what appeared to be three sandwich bags, each one rolled to about the size of a fat cigar and each one containing a white substance. It could have been powdered sugar, cocaine, crystal meth, or any number of other things, although the owner of the backpack had surely been into something other than sugar.

Let’s see it, the guy in the wheelchair said.

Not so fast, hot rod! Show me the money. The little light went out.

The wheelchair guy reached inside his multi-zippered jacket and extracted a wallet. In the darkness the wiry man could hear a rustle. Sensing that the money was in evidence he pressed the light on and held it close to the wallet. There appeared to be a goodly number of $100 bills.

Normally the guy in the wheelchair would never have let anyone’s hands so close to his wallet, but the little light threw him off guard. Suddenly the wiry guy snatched the wallet and quickly backed away. You son-of-a-bitch! the guy in the wheelchair exclaimed. Gimme that! He propelled his chair forward. The wiry guy danced aside and was suddenly behind him.

What? You gonna roll on me? he taunted. Suddenly he caught the joke, which was quite accidental on his part. He laughed even as the wheelchair guy spun around with surprising finesse. The wiry guy took several quick steps back. What you gonna do now? Run me down? The sneer on his face, though hidden in the relative darkness, became one of wide-eyed surprise when the chair shot forward. The wiry guy turned and ran. He was fast but quickly realized he wasn’t fast enough. He hadn’t made it ten feet when the accelerating wheelchair ran up on his heels. The runner cried out and then went down as if he’d stepped into wet cement.

The next thing he knew a strong hand snatched his collar, and he was being dragged to his knees. Painful moments followed as he felt and heard his nasal septum break. Warm blood spilled over his mouth and down his neck. Dumped in a heap, he lay there whimpering. The wheelchair guy took back the wallet and grabbed the downed man’s backpack, the miscreant having had time only to tuck it under his arm as he attempted a hasty retreat. The reckless young man could not have known he’d just challenged a winner of the 1998 Twin Cities Half Marathon to a foot race. The race draws thousands of runners and hundreds of wheelchairs. The disabled man beat all the wheelchair entrants and seventy-eight percent of the runners in a thirteen-odd mile race back and forth across the Mississippi River. Now, he sped along in the rain toward the Wayfarer Hotel and its comparatively cozy environs. No doorman waited to help him enter the lobby, nor did an elevator operator ask him which floor he wanted. He exited at the third floor and quickly made the way into his room.

He zippered the backpack shut and tossed it aside. From one of his many jacket pockets he retrieved a cell phone and selected a pre-programmed number. A familiar, though groggy voice answered. Do you know what goddamn time it is?

Sure I do. The wheelchair guy was grinning. But I thought you might be worried about me.

Not likely, the voice said. What’s up?

He’s the guy all right. Go ahead and send in the cavalry. They’ll find a load of the crap in his room. Tell them to move fast. After he cleans himself up, he’ll be lighting out of there.

Sounds good, R. T. Come see me when you get back in town. You’re done there.

R. T. Spencer looked around the seedy hotel room. He had wallowed in the undercover operation for the last two months and would not let the door hit him in the ass on his way out.

Chapter 1

The only sounds in the small, darkened room were the steady hum of the computer and an occasional click of the mouse. Each click brought a page into view, which the operator studied briefly before going on to the next. Suddenly, he paused and perched up in his seat. Bingo, he said aloud, although he was alone in the room. He rolled the mouse around with quick, sure movements, clicked here and there, then turned his swivel chair to await the printout.

As the page emerged, he was on his feet and headed out of the room. He burst through the door into a larger office. The wheel report confirms it sir, Burlington Northern train number 339. The cargo is on BN stack car number 159606.

He handed the paper to a man who loomed behind a large, uncluttered walnut desk. The man studied the sheet of paper. Very good, Stanley. Summon Boyd immediately, he said without looking up.

Immediately, sir, Stanley said, scurrying from the room.

The man at the desk stood and walked over to the wall where he pulled down a map that was illuminated by a recessed light in the ceiling. A big man, he rose to six feet, four inches and weighed 280 pounds. Were it not for the shock of white hair, from the back at least, he could be mistaken for a football player. He did not turn around when he heard Stanley and Lester Boyd enter the room. Operation Skyjack is a go, he boomed dramatically. Step over here, Boyd. We will go over the details once more. Stanley, place Task Force Alpha on ready alert. Place Task Force Beta on standby.

Yes, sir, the compliant man assured as he hurried away.

Engineer Cal Bentley, as usual, was in a good mood when he walked into the railroad yard office. He removed his jacket and hung it on a hook, then turned toward the coffee pot. Tony Solerno sat at the table brooding over his coffee. Solerno was one of those unfortunate souls who resented happy people for the first hour or two after awakening.

Good morning! Bentley exhorted, always quick to give his sullen conductor a jocular prod. Bentley had been making the run from Mountain City to Spokane for twenty-odd years—the last eight having been assisted by Solerno—and in that time they had encountered a wide variety of problems attendant to the operation of a freight train along that 254-mile stretch of track. They had also become friends, despite Solerno’s dread of greeting life each day.

What’s good about it? Solerno replied glumly.

There must be one little thing. Bentley grinned at the moody conductor.

Yeah, okay. Have it your way. Good morning. Here’s the wheel report and train orders. He handed the engineer a sheaf of papers. The wheel report detailed what each car on the train contained and its placement. The train orders detailed the instructions they were to follow en route to Spokane. Bentley took the papers and fastened them to a clipboard where they would be available for quick reference, then proceeded through the required routine that was necessary before pulling the train out of the yard.

Thirty minutes later the two trainmen climbed aboard the idling locomotive, hung their jackets on hooks and settled into their respective perches. The conductor proceeded with the air brake test while carmen walked along the train checking that the brakes on each car were in full working order. Bentley reached for the radiophone and spoke to the Mountain City dispatcher. BN three-three-niner requests authority to enter the main track at Mountain City and head west. He released the call button and waited for a reply.

The radiophone crackled as the dispatcher came back with a response. BN three-three-niner has authority to enter main two at Mountain City and proceed west.

Bentley patiently repeated the dispatcher’s instructions, and with final approval, released the brakes and slowly increased the power. The team of locomotives leaned against 6000 tons of steel on wheels. A resounding clank echoed eighty-seven times as the slack was pulled from the couplings connecting each car down the line. Moments later the serpentine monster was rolling toward Spokane on a junket that could take anywhere from six to twelve hours. Bentley and Solerno were the only Burlington Northern employees on the train since a general reorganization several years past had eliminated the caboose. The odds were good that somewhere behind them, one or more downtrodden itinerants had secreted themselves in an open boxcar. But they were blissfully unaware of the shadowy, black-clad form that climbed aboard the second locomotive just as they were getting underway.

Fifty-four minutes later and seventy-two air miles distant, a late-model Chevy pickup with two men in the cab turned into a wide clearing at the southeastern flank of Elk Mountain. Their headlights illuminated the hulking form of a Sikorsky Skycrane helicopter. Designed to haul a payload of eleven tons, it was currently leased by the Cliffside Logging Company to lift logs from the slopes of Elk Mountain where no wheeled or tracked machine could go. Like trainmen Bentley and Solerno, the occupants of the pickup were oblivious to the fact that hidden among the cluster of oil drums and tanks and piles of cable which littered the perimeter of the helipad, two ersatz commandos lay waiting to spring into action. The two men in the pickup stopped with headlights illuminating the giant machine now sitting there like a torpid dragonfly. With the headlights remaining on, they got out and began the process of refueling and performing a pre-flight go around.

One man retrieved a ladder from the shadows and placed it in position near the helicopter’s fuel tank. The other man went to a nearby tank truck and proceeded to reel out hose. This sure as hell isn’t like the old days in Nam, he said as he handed the nozzle up to the man on the ladder. We had a crew to do this shit. All the pilots did was fly the damn things. Muttering, he went back to the fuel truck, started the noisy pump, and stood by to await the signal that the Skycrane was topped off with fuel. Light would break in less than one hour, and although it was Sunday, a day of dangerous flying would begin. The Sikorsky Skycrane was worth far too much to sit idle on the ground, Sunday or not.

Less than thirty feet away, crouched behind two oil drums, the leader of the diminutive Alpha Force pulled a black ski mask into place, then stood and walked toward the unsuspecting pilot. The other commando was watching for his leader’s move, and when he saw it, he emerged from the shadows to cover the man on the ladder. The pilot at the tanker pump saw movement, but before he could respond, a voice next to his ear said, Freeze! He felt cold steel pressed hard to the base of his skull. Kill the pump and get your hands up! Move slow.

Adrenaline surged, and the pilot’s core instinct screamed fight or flight, but he stifled the urge to do either and looked toward the pump—away from the voice and the barrel of the 9 mm Ruger American—and with carefully measured movements, hit the kill switch.

The flight engineer, focused on the rising level of fuel and unaware that he was already covered with deadly force, turned saying, What are you doing? It’s not fu... His voice trailed off. He was surprised by all that had transpired in the short time he’d been peering into the fuel tank. He let go of the nozzle and started to raise his hands. Don’t shoot me! I’ll do what you want. I have a family, the frightened man pleaded.

Don’t move, the man on the ground said, though the tenor of his voice suggested he was a man not long out of boyhood.

What’s going on? the pilot asked in the most assured voice he could muster.

His assailant motioned him to walk toward the helicopter. No talking and no stupid moves and nobody gets hurt, he replied. I do the talking. Then he spoke to the flight engineer. Button this thing up and come down off that ladder. He pointed his semi-automatic pistol at the flight engineer to emphasize his point.

The two crewmen stood side-by-side facing the glaring headlights. In a little while, the man in black said to the pilot, you and I are going for a ride. Your friend will remain here with my friend, Zeus. He will be handcuffed. Zeus and I will be in radio contact. One word from me and your partner here is dead. Understood? The pilot nodded in the affirmative.

The pilot was sifting through his options. Neither he nor his flight engineer carried a weapon. In the first place, he never conceived it would ever become useful. Secondly, he was a pilot, not a gunfighter. He was considering running when the brigand took that option off the table. Stand over there in front of your pickup. That was Zeus’s cue to step up and handcuff their wrists together, directing the pilot to place his hand through the grill guard so they couldn’t go anywhere without taking the pickup with them.

The man who was in command watched until he was confidant that neither of the crewmen presented a threat. Holstering his handgun, he said: Turn those headlights off, Zeus. He reached into a vest pocket and came out with a packet of red Dentyne chewing gum. The packet having been opened with the pull-tab, he carefully worked out the next piece, refolded the flap and placed the packet back in his pocket. Removing the gum from the wrapper, he tossed it in his mouth, rolled the little paper wrapper into a ball, and carefully placed it in a shirt pocket. Now let’s all just sit here for awhile and be quiet. It’s real nice watching daylight come. By the way, I’m Wolf. With that, he sat down on the ground, indicating that the others should do the same and proceeded to savor his fresh piece of gum.

Cal Bentley peered up the track at the path illumined by the powerful, ever-searching, ever-vigilant headlamp, his hand ready to reach for the whistle control. Three-three-niner was lumbering along at a comfortable fifty-five MPH, five MPH below the maximum speed allowed for a freight train. Occasionally he glanced out into the passing forest to measure the pace of the growing light. The woods were still dark. It would be another hour before a man could sight a deer standing in the trees. A light up the track brought Bentley to the edge of his seat. Take a look, Tony, he said urgently.

The conductor wasted no time getting to the window. Looks like a fusee, he said even though the light was still a mile distant.

Bentley reached for the throttle control and began levering it back, Goddamnit! he swore. We’ll have to shut her down.

As the track was on an incline along the stretch that reached toward Elk Mountain, the iron behemoth easily slowed and stopped short of the flare. Solerno was reaching for the radio phone when a stern command in a thick German accent came from the rear of the cab where a door led in from the second locomotive. Stay in your seats! Do not make a fast move!

Despite the warning, both trainmen whirled around to face an enshrouded figure with a riot gun leveled at them. What the hell. . ., the engineer started. He could only tell that the man was big.

Turn around! the intruder barked. Do what you are told and there will be no trouble. Move slowly! Bentley and Solerno obediently turned and looked back at the tracks which were illuminated for a quarter mile. Get on your radio and tell your dispatcher you want to pull into Long Meadow Siding. Say that you must check for an air problem on your train. Do it now or I shoot him. The intruder pointed the gaping maw of the shotgun at Tony Solerno.

Bentley calmly picked up the radiophone and did exactly as he was told.

That’s affirmative BN three-three-niner. I’ll head you in at Long Meadow and stand by for a call back, said the dispatcher from her computer console a safe 2200 miles away in Ft. Worth, Texas. She ran her fingers rapidly over her keyboard. One nanosecond later the switch at Long Meadow Siding was directed to move, but spur-of-the-moment decisions and freight trains are not a good mix, so a five-minute delay is built into the system. It was exactly five minutes later that a giant overhead schematic showed the dispatcher that train number 339, now reduced to a series of small yellow lights, had left the main line and entered Long Meadow Siding.

Shut it down and dynamite the brakes, the gunman ordered. The engines slowed to a crawl and finally stopped. A banging sound reverberated into the distance as each car down the line absorbed the slack in the coupling of the car behind it. Hands behind your seats. The trainmen complied, and they were quickly fastened to their seats with plastic ties originally designed to hold bundles of wiring together. Before exiting the cab, the man in black hurled the radiophone to the floor, smashing it.

Downline, the rest of Beta Force went into action. Another black-clad raider emerged from cover wearing a large backpack and walked alongside the train, his eyes searching for a sea container displaying the J. B. Hunt logo with the correct registration number which he’d been informed was the thirty-seventh car in the train.

Two cars in front of the target J. B. Hunt container was an empty boxcar belonging to the Santa Fe Railroad line. Melvin Phelps was huddled in a corner, fast asleep until the train came to a complete stop, and the resounding clatter that ensued as each car did a controlled crash into the one in front of it awoke him. Through the open door he could see scant daylight. Although he had slept only a short time, having boarded the train in Mountain City, he decided to get up and relieve himself. He was about to step in front of the door when he heard voices. He froze, listening. They came from just outside and until he had reason to believe otherwise, he would perceive it as a threat to his well-being. Had Phelps appeared, his well-being would most certainly have taken a turn for the worse.

Confident that he could not be seen, as out of habit he, like Beta squad, was also wearing dark clothing, he peered with one eye past the sliding steel door. There were two men, one of them considerably taller than the other. Phelps thought the shorter of the two was quite fat until he realized the man was wearing a backpack. The pack man spoke to the big man. Pauley’s coming right behind me.

The big man reacted quickly. Watch your mouth, Thor. How many times do I tell you? No names!

The other man shrunk. Sorry, Bluto. I’ll watch it.

Bluto’s sharp admonition was to be expected considering the line of work in which they were presently engaged. Dropping actual names could have serious consequences when comrades made rookie mistakes. The rule was absolute: when they were performing a covert operation, only pseudonyms were used.

Another shadowy form joined the duo. Bluto spoke. Okay, boys. We have work to do.

The three dark figures moved out of Melvin Phelps view and earshot, stopping at a stack car on down the line. Bluto climbed up onto the coupling between the two cars. You first, Coyote. The man named Coyote clambered up on the coupling beside Bluto, stepped into the cupped hands of the big man, and was literally launched to the top of the sea container. Thor dropped his backpack on the ground and clambered up to Bluto and was soon on top with Coyote.

Once on top, they dropped a one-half inch nylon rope to the ground and stood by while Bluto removed the contents of Thor’s backpack, four twenty-two-foot lengths of coiled cable. One end of each cable was secured to a heavy iron ring that had been painted florescent orange for the occasion. He yanked the rope twice, and the men on top quickly hauled the material up to their perch. They placed the bundle near the middle of the container. Coyote then uncoiled the cables while Thor crawled to the opposing ends of the giant metal box, affixing each cable to a fastener with a beefy steel clevis.

While Thor was attaching the cables, Coyote secured the half-inch rope so it could be used to repel to the ground once they were finished. Are we good out there? he asked when Thor rejoined him.

Good to go!

Coyote clapped him on the shoulder. Okay then, slip on down there and help Bluto with the tie downs. I’ll wait here for the big bird.

Bluto and Thor finished their work while Coyote studied the eastern horizon for evidence of the coming dawn. All of this transpired without Melvin Phelps hearing any further conversation. Suddenly the gun-toting giant reappeared. In the dim light Phelps could not be sure, but it seemed as though he might be speaking into a radio.

Back at the helipad, Wolf, basking in the joy of watching the crepuscular hour unfold, was startled from his reverie by a voice coming to him through an earbud. The children are waiting at the bus stop, he heard Bluto say.

Wolf stood up, formed his lips into an O and blew out, propelling the wad of gum from his mouth. It flew about fifteen feet, ricocheted off the fender of the pickup and fell to the ground. Let’s move, people, he said.

With that cue, Zeus released the pilot from the handcuffs and locked the loose end onto the grill guard. Wolf then directed the pilot to board the dormant whirlybird.

Wait a minute, Wolfman, the pilot protested, I need him. He nodded his head at his copilot.

I’ll do his part, Wolf said.

Can you fly this thing? The pilot already knew the answer; there were damn few pilots who could handle the giant machine. Standing nearly twenty feet tall, stretching to almost ninety feet in length and spreading to seventy-two feet in width, the Sikorsky CH-54 was a handful for the best of pilots. Besides, this bird was military surplus and was kept flying with parts cannibalized from four other CH-54s that would never fly again.

Nah, Wolf said with a cavalier wave of his hand. But we’ll be okay as long as you don’t have a heart attack or something.

I need to do a walk around, the pilot implored.

Forget it, Wolf answered. We’ll take a chance.

Minutes later the turbines turned with a high-pitched whine that brought the twin 4500 horsepower Pratt and Whitney engines to life. The two men on the ground huddled against the tornado-like winds that hurled grit and debris in all directions. After about thirty seconds into a one-minute engine run up, Zeus regretted that he’d chosen such an exposed position to handcuff his detainee. There is no such thing as a warm morning in the mountains of Montana, and the giant windmill blades, spinning at high RPMs, took what was otherwise chilly morning air and super cooled it to a ripping bone chiller. In an odd display of compassion, the commando placed his body in position to help shield the hapless engineer from the blessedly short blast of arctic air that the Skycrane generated as it lifted off.

Like a cobra rising from a basket, a heavy cable 200-feet long and securely attached to the belly of the giant helicopter, began to uncoil from the ground. Once in the air the cable would trail behind and below the Skycrane. At the end of the cable was a large rubber-wrapped ring housing an electronic hooking mechanism, commonly used by heliloggers to lift valuable timber from steep mountainsides.

Level off at 500 feet and take a heading of two-seven-zero, Wolf said, now wearing a set of headphones and sitting in the right seat. And don’t take your headphones off intercom. No radio! He patted his chest where he wore the radio that connected him with Zeus.

They flew south for a little over two minutes until train tracks appeared. Wolf was looking from side to side. Off to the left the bright light of a fusee flared up. Over there, he said. Hit your flood light.

That’s why I have a copilot, the pilot said as he slowed his forward speed and banked the flying behemoth toward the patch of red light. The switch is right in front of you.

The commando leaned forward and peered at the dozens of switches and dials arrayed in front of him. He found the desired toggle switch and flipped it. The ground below lit up like a stadium. See the green container with the man standing on top? Give him the hook.

Holt’s job, one at which he was very good, was to ease the Skycrane into position; finesse the controls in such a manner to prevent the cable from swinging wildly, possibly knocking the man off the top of the sea container. Holt wondered why he should even care.

He slowed the helicopter’s forward speed and peered out the bubble window to gage the position of the hooker in relation to the hooking mechanism, even as he tried to study the adjacent terrain in the event he had an engine out, or even a lesser problem like an errant gust of wind. He expected neither, nevertheless...I could use some eyes over there, Wolfman!

You got ‘em cowboy! Ol’ Coyote down there knows what to do. Ease forward now. You’re fifty feet off his three o’clock. Good. That’s good. Move to the port. Easy does it. Easy...Okay, he’s got the hook. Holt wondered briefly if hooker knew enough to slap the dangling contraption to discharge static electricity before grabbing it to prevent an ass-kicking shock. He hoped not. Holt kept his eye on the artificial horizon and concentrated on keeping the Skycrane straight and level.

Coyote, in fact, did know to slap the big rubber-wrapped hooking mechanism with the back of his hand before grabbing it. With the orange ring in one hand and the line from the helicopter in the other, he connected the two. The twin blades of the Skycrane blasted him with a frigid downdraft, and not only was it bitterly cold, but he could easily be swept from his narrow perch by cat-one hurricane winds. He found the nylon rope and repelled to the ground with considerable alacrity.

Two hundred feet up, Wolf saw Coyote slide to the ground. You’ve got it Sky King. Take ‘er up! he shouted excitedly.

Richard Holt had flown helicopters in plenty of dangerous situations, but never as a captive. He had no idea what he was being ordered to lift let alone its actual weight. Before I do that, you’d better tell me what I’ve got. Better yet, how much does it weigh? Or do you just want to shoot me now? Holt assumed a sanctimonious air.

The